Decipherment
by stray.alchemist
Summary: When American representatives - Steve Rogers among them - visit the famous headquarters of British intelligence, a certain assistant begins an investigation of her own, digging through layers of symbols, until she finds a person beneath them. Historical AU.
1. Chapter 1

_This (much belated) fic is a Multifandom Gift Exchange gift for xsnarkasaurus. I'm sorry for posting it so late, and I hope you like it! I know you asked for something rather fluffy and silly, and I've picked a setting that seems just anything but. Still, as an author, I hope you'll trust me when I say that next part will be fluffy and warm, even if in that bittersweet way of WWII dancing parties and romantic relationships between soldiers and women working in the army. I also hope I didn't offend anyone with that vision - but there was a brighter, funnier part of mid-war culture, and I want to explore it in this fic._

* * *

Steve Rogers has already seen people yielding to commands, no matter if those led them to certain death or not. He has witnessed - and tasted, too - the way cold-blooded manipulation can turn one into a submissive shell with little will of their own. He knows the power of prayer, feeling the mighty words shove away all his doubts. He has seen what simple, encoded messages could do. But world's most powerful words are -  
'I'm an assistant.'  
He reflexively lifts the girl's hand to his mouth and kisses the air over her fingers, still lost in thought, even if already returning to this manor. The assistant - Clarice or Darcy, he has met too many of them today - flashes a bright, lipsticked smile, not quite appropriate for mid-wartime official introductions, and takes a step back. Steve forgets her the moment he focuses on her employer, a petite woman with a child's face adorned with thick glasses. Jane Foster.

Darcy watches, smile still lingering on her crimson lips.  
Once someone has already acknowledged you as a mere assistant, you slip into shadows and do whatever you want.

* * *

The United States had Howard Stark; Bletchley Park had Dilly Knox.

This was the only possible explanation Steve could find for his immediate dislike of this place. Knox certainly lacked Stark's fashionable suits and a sense of subtle control, but he replaced it with an irritating manner of everyone's favorite uncle, mingled with superior's patronizing tone. Both men had minds sharp as razors and both regarded themselves above their friends and co-workers - even if for most of the time they hid their self-admiration and let it show only through seemingly unimportant gestures. They also shared a habit of surrounding themselves with young women, which Steve found mildly disgusting. Women were not to be treated like pretty decorations. It took him way too long to notice that he was treated like a decorative piece as well.

He roved through corridors of Bletchley, out of place and out of work. From behind half-closed doors he could pick up snippets of conversation, most of them peppered with scientific jargon. Sometimes it would be Dilly quoting some long-dead Roman - those were the only moments he expressed fondness for something else than himself - or Jane's calm, soothing voice, partially drowned out by computing machines' crackling. More often people would fall silent once they had heard his footsteps, and serious matters would give place to Dilly's girls' giggles.

It was Bucky who elucidated Bletchley's twisted, paranoid logic.  
'They think you're a German spy,' he told Steve during lunchtime, giving him a conspiratorial look.  
Rogers gasped, nearly choking on his soup.  
'Me. A German spy,' he said flatly, in complete disbelief.  
'We know you're not.' Barnes peered at him for a split second, as if assuring himself of it. Steve avoided his stare, hopelessly pretending to focus on stirring the unappetizing content of his bowl. 'They don't. They accuse every newcomer, and you're special, because you put everyone's distrust to sleep. I mean this part of Bletchley that doesn't want to -' He made a gesture that Steve already recognized as a more rude synonym for fondue.  
The supersoldier sighed wearily, waiting for his friend's wry smile to fade.  
'Assuming I was spying on them, I wouldn't even know where to start.'  
'Do you really think they forgot Erskine? And his affiliation?'  
Steve nearly jumped and looked around, checking on cafeteria's other guests, but Bucky only shook his head.  
'You're as paranoid as those Brits,' he said.  
'I'm protective,' Rogers corrected him under his breath.

They finished their lunch in silence tinted with insincere smugness on Bucky's side and uncomfortable restlessness on Steve's. Around them, Bletchley Park workers ordered food and chatted casually. Even here, far away from battlefields, war took its toll on them - their smiles never reached the eyes, darkened with some kind of fortitude, although drained of faith. Malnutrition was written over their hollowed cheeks. And still, they led normal lives, working, dreaming, loving. Steve felt completely out of place.  
'See you later,' he said, leaving Barnes among empty plates and with an astonished look.

He headed to a Victorian house, currently occupied by American guests. Its wild, unkempt garden provided a kind of shield, even if only an illusory one. Suddenly, someone caught his hand.

'I know you're not a spy,' said a girl Steve didn't recognize, unsuccessfully trying to keep the wind from pushing her long, chestnut hair into her face. For a second, she squeezed his fingers. 'You're... too true for that kind of things.' She let go, turning and trotting before he could reply. Rogers caught himself staring at her silhouette until she took a turn into one of the alleys and disappeared. He could still feel her warm fingers with small corns on their tips around his hand.

Then it occurred to him that if someone was spying and eavesdropping, it was her.

* * *

If they didn't invite you by the door, use the window. Living by this credo has led Darcy Lewis from London suburbs through a bunch of mediocre schools to work for British intelligence. She had worked, charmed and lied her way through, not hesitating when her keen eye spotted an opportunity. Meeting Jane Foster was one of such opportunities. At first the two women - the  
young teacher and the shy scholar - were just friends from the neighbourhood, but during grim days of war their friendship  
became most important mutual support.  
'I thought of joining the RAF,' Lewis confessed one evening. 'Or, you know, becoming a Wren.'  
Jane shot her an alert, anxious look, which the younger girl deciphered many weeks later.  
'You might get killed,' she said quietly, not allowing her feelings to become any more visible.  
Darcy shrugged and pouted her lips in her usual manner.  
'Soldiers get killed every day, and I want to help, too.'  
'I might know someone who would like to hire you if you really want to help,' said Jane, a bit too quickly, covering Darcy's fingers with her hand.

Miss Lewis agreed, much to her own surprise. A few weeks later she found herself packing and leaving her beloved London for Bletchley Park. Soon, instead of teaching children, she was reading messages, listening to phone calls not meant for her ears and assisting Jane in codebreaking. Still, a part of herself remembered her previous life and how she always got what she wanted. This particular memory currently badly reminded her of the fact that now she wanted a supersoldier.


	2. Chapter 2

Remember when I said it was going to be just 2 chapters? I lied. :)  
No, honestly, there were so many things I wanted to involve in the plot that I couldn't resist making the whole story a bit longer. Also, Darcy. I enjoy writing liberated!Darcy so much.  
Anyway, enjoy. :)

* * *

There are some things that Steve isn't supposed to draw, regardless of the seeming ridicule of such order - but he's learned his lesson, cautiously avoiding anything that could give away any of the Army's plans. He prefers the abstract anyway, using strokes of pen or pencil where others would choose words. His characters float in a barely sketched background - so it's impossible to tell where he's been - and are mostly faceless. They have no eyes to squint accusingly at him for drawing them this way and no mouth to curl in smiles. It doesn't matter; he carries the images of important people in his mind, engraved in his memories and retouched by dreams.

In this case, though, he would like to know how to draw the face. Instead, the stranger keeps her long hair out of an oval shape, an empty space which should strike with meaning. On other sketches, she's already turning away, her coat flapping in the wind. On another one, she disappears not into an alley, but into a darkening hedge of symbols and numbers.

This one would probably denounce too much, so Steve decided to hide it.

* * *

Before the official working hours began, Darcy found a wicker basket full of paper sheets waiting for her on her desk. She estimated the number of sheets in her mind and stifled a groan.  
'Can you get this done by tomorrow morning?' Jane asked in a quiet, serious voice all of a sudden.  
Darcy nearly jumped, not expecting to see her friend - and supervisor now, too - so early in her office.  
'That's a lot of work,' she remarked, placing her copy of Russell's "Principles of Mathematics" by the basket.  
'I know. But it's important.' Foster removed her glasses and rubbed her nose in places where the frame left hollow red marks.  
'As if anything in Bletchley wasn't.' Her assistant picked up the topmost sheet and examined it. It was printed in two columns, each containing eight block letters. 'Let's look for patterns.'

For a while, she was silent, biting the tip of her pencil in pensiveness and marking all the similarities her mind picked up. The clatter of machines in adjoining rooms suited this task, imposing a hypnotic, trance-like rhythm. As time passed, noticing reiterations became automatic, nearly thoughtless, as if they shone out in the paper. Then, hopefully, realization would strike and the code would break.

'It's not about the Germans, is it?' Darcy suddenly said, lifting her head and keeping her voice casual and low. She knew too well that in Bletchley, walls had ears. It led to developing an useful habit of concealing any signs of agitation or interest - anything that could signify importance - in conversation.  
Jane didn't answer, persistently pretending to be scanning through her notebook.  
'If it was a German code, you'd have given it to Dilly's girls. They're better than me, we both know it,' Lewis added with a hint of accusation. 'And if they break it, the news will spread fast.'  
She rolled the pencil between her fingers.  
'Aren't you going to answer me?' She asked angrily.

Even though she could see only Jane's profile, Darcy could tell her friend was fighting off a smile.  
'They might have put you in the wrong division.'  
'Thanks, but I'd rather hear the facts than a compliment,' the assistant retorted before considering her answer. She observed Jane's expression nervously, half expecting a reprimand.  
'It is an American message,' Foster finally said. 'Addressed to our... guests.'  
Darcy bit her lip.  
'So you suspect them, too?' It sounded more aggressive than she had intended.  
Jane shrugged. During past months Darcy had seen many different expressions on fellow decipherers' faces - some did their work with hatred-fueled fortitude, others with curiosity or a solemn look acquired by proper citizens sacrificing themselves to their communities. But Foster was approaching codebreaking matter-of-factly.  
Just like now, when she said, 'A bit of vigilance hasn't harmed anyone yet, has it?'

Darcy shook her head and pulled another printed sheet.  
'You're impossible,' she muttered. The few things she knew about her friend were just a tip of an iceberg, but she never doubted she wanted to look beneath the surface, right into cold water. The answer to this was obvious. 'And you want me to believe you're here to ponder upon rows of symbols with a little help from that good old Russell fellow? I call bullshit on this.'  
Jane didn't manage to hold back a displeased "tsk" at the sound of such a rude word in her assistant's mouth. Lewis calmly counted to ten, waiting for the reproachful expression to smoothen and give place to another of Jane's discreet, shy smiles.  
'That's confidential,' the scholar said, which in Darcy's ears sounded like "you'll find out later".

* * *

At some point - late in the evening, by the yellowish light of table lamps which always caused Darcy's eyes to sting - the code was broken. Jane sighed with relief while reading the message. Darcy was barely able to hide her discontent. Knowing the so-called guests will leave in one week was no good news for her.

She walked back to her apartment, crossing her arms to keep warm in the chilly wind. She remembered feeling like this as a child, when her mind refused to get ready for disappointment. Now her wishes had changed and they often involved men, but the sensation of something slipping right from her hands was the same. The greater her fascination, the worse.

In this case, the fascination had gotten out of control, to the accompaniment of Darcy's internal applause. She openly admitted, even if just to herself, her admiration for the supersoldier's beauty. He was beautiful in the most classical way, one she usually found boring, as any flawlessness, but in this case it only meant she had to be more careful to notice traces of past flaws in the legendary body. There was also his intriguing shyness and gentleness, unsuitable for someone who killed other people for a living, and unbelievable fortitude, already carving itself in little wrinkles on his face. A pretty man, a forbidden fruit - she had expected many things, but not such a complicated riddle. Laughter mingled with despair welled up slowly in her throat. She discovered she'd gladly just sit with him and talk, talk, talk, but one week might not be enough even for this.

The wind carried rustle of leaves - and much more distinct patter of someone's steps. Darcy stopped, out of habit reaching for a small gun she carried with her. No one was allowed to wander around Bletchley Park at this hour. Not even her, but she decided not to bother herself.  
'Who's there?' She asked with all her confidence, pulling out the gun.  
She doubted it would be useful in her hands. She'd never shot anyone, and definitely wasn't good at aiming at shadows among the trees. But at least she didn't feel defenseless.  
'I said: who's there?' She repeated, now mostly irritated.  
A few more steps.  
'Wouldn't you put that down?'  
Darcy stifled a gasp. She recognized that voice - and obeyed, quite gladly.  
'It's you,' she said.

Steve stared, making sure that the semidarkness didn't deceive him. But it definitely was her, the eavesdropping stranger; even in these eerie shadows, with her hair tucked in a loose bun, she was so unmistakable he couldn't believe he didn't spot her earlier.  
'It's you,' he repeated after her. 'The impudent spook.'  
The girl laughed, muffling it by pressing one hand to her mouth.  
'Before you ask,' she said, 'nobody hired me. I was looking for you.'  
Rogers couldn't decide whether he should be curious, disappointed or alert. Gradually, disappointment won.  
'And now you've met the legend, what next?' He asked flatly.  
She hesitated.  
'I'm not interested in legends,' she said, offering her hand.  
Strangely enough, he clasped his hand with hers and followed her into the night.


	3. Chapter 3

'You're beautiful,' Darcy says.

Her words push Steve out of sweet numbness and exhaustion, back to the cramped, badly lit room. He snaps his eyes open. She sits by his side, covered only in a blanket that reveals more than it veils. Dark strands of hair drop on her breasts when she leans over him, drawing invisible symbols on his skin.

'You really are,' she adds, perhaps noticing the disbelief that somehow crept into his face. Her eyes are dreamy and hazy, but they still seem to pierce through the tale that was spun around him - and, in spite of the ring to the word, it evokes a comforting sensation, even if it leaves Steve more exposed than it would result from the lack of clothes.

It takes him a while to reach the conclusion that he should be the one commenting on her beauty and caressing her. He feels quite awkward, his voice faltering as he stumbles, not able to find the right words. But she just places a finger on his lips, giving a knowing smile and bending even lower, until her hair tickles his skin and her scent brings back memories of the past few hours in all their wondrous intensity.

He has no words for that, either. Nothing to describe how he willingly gave in to Darcy, letting her to guide him and discovering what could draw out pleased gasps from her. Now the memory mingles with present, the same need is welling up and the shudders evoked by the codebreaker's touch are familiar and gladly received. He holds her tight, until there's nothing between them, and reciprocates the best he can.

Darcy gives a quiet, triumphant laugh into his arm, but the sound is soon replaced by a needy sigh.

* * *

Days passed inevitably, bringing Darcy and Steve closer to the parting. Surprisingly, Darcy found that reassuring, comforting even. The passion and fascination would burn bright for the rest of the week, to the point where it was no more bearable, leaving nothing but good, sweet memories before it even could develop into something more profound and precarious. She was a former teacher who had joined British intellience almost by accident; he was a supersoldier, not made to spend his life far from the front line. Not becoming too attached was safe.

She carried on with her duties, spending her mornings on meticulous codebreaking - as if nothing important was happening to her. However, Jane began to give her long, thoughtful looks and to ask twisted questions, difficult to dismiss. Darcy soon learned that changing the topic was the only method that actually worked; even the most evasive answers gave away something, and lying to someone involved in espionage was a particularly bad idea. For a change, occasional mentions of the Norwegian embassy in London and their representative, a certain Mr Odinson, were remarkably efficient.

'Why does he write to you so often, anyway?' Darcy would ask with a friendly smirk.  
'Last time I checked, you weren't entitled to classified data' was the usual answer, but Jane sometimes uttered something about Darcy being employed in the wrong division.

Wrong division or not, Darcy put the Odinson case aside, too focused on her current affair. At first, she tried to evade Steve's questions, as well; mostly out of habit. She learned to recognize the question forming itself in Steve's mind as his eyes became slightly opaque and his gaze grew distant, and interrupted their conversation with a long, deep kiss before he had a chance to ask it. But pieces of her life seeped through the things she said, and often he managed to ask anyway. He cared. He was interested.

Which made the idea of parting not as painless as it seemed first.

For this reason she preferred to listen first - he had plenty to speak about, and she began suspecting that no one before her bothered to pay attention to his words - and engage in activities that didn't involve much speaking later. Once the initial shyness was gone, she could savour his unconstrained enthusiasm and tenderness, acts and gestures not influenced by previous experience and ideas of how things should be. Everything he did was genuine, from blushing under her gaze to muttering unpretentious compliments to her ear when she cuddled to him afterwards, still weak and shaky. He never concealed his curiosity, studying every inch of her skin with his fingers, and nearly tore the bedsheet when she relieved his passion with her mouth for the first time. The way he clung close to her later, the equal proportions of embarrassment and thankfulness, were honest as well.

* * *

'What are you going to do after Bletchley?' He asked her on the penultimate evening, catching her off guard.  
'What?' Darcy budged in his arms.  
Steve cupped her cheek, looking in her eyes.  
'The war won't last forever, as we both know. What are you going to do once it's over? Return to London?'  
The idea of resuming her previous job was funny, in a hysterical, bitter way. Darcy blinked.  
'Sure as hell not.'  
'What then?' He withdrew his hand, now stroking her back. 'Did they offer you a job in the government?'  
She shook her head. She had pushed the thought that they won't need her anymore out of her consciousness to the point where it seemed unreal and absurd.  
'How about you?' She reversed the question. 'Did they offer you a job in the army?'  
Steve sighed. It was the same kind of sigh he had let out when she asked about his age, and the answer he gave was "too old".  
'Probably. But I won't have anything to do, anyway.'  
Darcy immediately regretted asking.  
'I'm tired of being shown around,' he continued, 'and I don't want to battle. It's not as... obvious as it used to be. I've met good and honorable German soldiers and violent cowards in the American army. But what else can I do?' He stretched out one hand, examining the muscles working underneath his skin. 'I can't come back to who I were.'  
Darcy caught his hand gently.  
'None of us can,' she said quietly. 'War changes us. We're pretending it doesn't, but nothing is going to be the same.'  
'And what if we don't succumb to everyday life?'  
The codebreaker furrowed her brows.  
'What do you mean?'  
Steve averted his eyes, but a faint, insecure smile lingered on his lips.  
'What if we abandon who we were and travel to see the world? Never staying in one place for too long?'  
She bites her lip.  
'Promise me, Darcy,' he asked.  
It took her a long while to say anything. The fire within her burned brighter than ever, threatening to scorch her inside out, but she didn't care. Everything had changed, anyway. She could change - burn and revive - as well.  
'I promise.'

* * *

The promise settles in Darcy's mind. During the farewell banquet, she doesn't shed a single tear; during her private goodbye with Steve, she manages not to make any far-fetched declarations. She places a folded piece of paper in his pocket instead. It contains a seemingly chaotic line of digits and letters in red ink, but he will certainly break the code with ease. He will see through it.

In the morning, misty and blue, she finds an unsigned envelope in her apartment and a handful of drawings in it.

They both know it's just the beginning.

* * *

_Since it's the end, I would like to thank all of you - the ones who were following, commenting, sending me messages and the silent lurkers as well. ;) Thank you for the inspirations and food for thought! I'm looking forward to reading your comments on the final chapter, too. I hope you enjoyed this fic as much as I did writing it, and I have to confess I really had fun. :) I would also like to thank my wonderful beta, creoipsum, who not only checked the text, but also discussed the background with me and kept me motivated._

_Also, I have hinted here and there at writing more stories set in this verse. I tend to become obsessed with my "loose ideas" quickly, so consider yourselves warned. ;)_

_Thank you!_

_- carrie_


End file.
